Compensation
by Alena Blackheart
Summary: Love knows no bounds - not even through alternate universes. (( JayxTim. Rated M for themes, language, major character death, and potential gore. And massive amounts of angst. ))


Hello, pigeons.

So I have been wanting to write a Stray!Tim fic for a while now, and after around six or seven months, I finally decided to post.

This first chapter is really just pure angst, though - and it just a background thing. But! There will be *many* more chapters with lots of ups and downs and the like.

And so, without further ado, I give you chapter 1. c:

_Italics indicate flashbacks._

Disclaimer: None of the characters, settings, or variations of either are truly mine.

* * *

They don't get it. He isn't mad. Well, he is mad at himself – but he's not *angry*. Not like they think he is. Sure, he's been a bit more aggressive on patrol the past few days. Sure, he doesn't really *need* to be on patrol right now, it's just an excuse to beat things up. He hasn't even used his guns since last week. It's just not the same. Shooting doesn't get rid of the feeling in his chest: the tight, overwhelming urge to break things. But he still isn't *angry*. He does not feel the same satisfaction in breaking a criminal's arm or snapping a drug dealer's ribs that he normally would. It's just. . .it's all something to do. Something to distract him. He isn't angry – but if they think he's angry, they'll leave him alone. 'They' meaning his 'family'. And they *are* sort of his family again. They don't have movie nights or go on camping trips. Hell, they don't even play nice half of the time. But they're not enemies anymore. Not strangers. Not since he and Tim started dating. They made amends – and there were a lot of those to be made. But for the past year, things had been going alright. But that doesn't mean Jason wants them around right now. So it's alright that they think he's angry. That they are staying out of his way as he rips through the underworld of Gotham. If they think he's angry, they'll leave him alone. And he prefers that right now. Because, honestly, he still doesn't believe it. He's still in denial. He isn't ready for anger yet. He isn't sure he ever will be. Right now he's just. . .just. . .

Lost. Empty. Alone. Hurt. Broken. Sorry. So *so* sorry. . .

They tell him it wasn't his fault, but he knows – he *knows* it is. Blaming himself won't bring him back, and he gets that – really he does – but that doesn't dismiss the fact that it *is* his fault.

_Tim opens the door of the cab, his blue eyes flashing with irritation and worry as he hands over the money and scrambles out – shutting the door after a soft 'thank you'. He adjusts his suit jacket as he turns towards the restaurant but freezes as he spots Jason sitting on the bench in front of him. He blinks once before stepping towards him, holding his hands up in surrender as he begins with a small smile, "Sorry I'm late, I was-"_

_But Jason cuts him off by standing up – a half-hearted glare set into place as he huffs out, "Yeah, I'm sure you were. You're *always* late – I don't know why I expected tonight would be any different."_

_Tim pauses and stares for a moment, almost as though he isn't sure what to do, before he slowly crosses his arms across his chest. Jason ignores the moment of hurt in the smaller man's crystal blue eyes – an easy feat as a glare overcomes Tim's features._

"_Really? I came as quickly as I could, Jason," Tim replies, voice hushed as he attempts to keep this from turning into a scene. "it's not my fault that-" But Jason cuts him off again – not bothering to keep his voice civil._

"_It's never your fault. Of *course* it isn't. Heaven forbid Timothy 'fucking perfect' Drake Wayne do something wrong. And no, you're right. You're *not* always late. Not if it has something to do with WE. Or your team. Or Ba- the 'night job'. But have you noticed a common theme, Tim? Have you noticed how every damn time you have plans with *me* SOMETHING comes up? What was it this time? A late meeting? Traffic?"_

_Tim's fingers dig into his arms as anger bubbles in his chest at the sarcastic tone in Jason's rant. His blue eyes dart to the side and a colorful string of words fly through his mind as he notices a few people staring. Great. Just perfect. He looks back at Jason and takes a step forward, his words practically hissing through his clenched teeth as he snaps,_

"_This is not the place for this. If you don't want to have dinner, *fine*. But I'm not about to have an argument with you in public."_

_Jason walks forward as well, hands fisted at his sides as he leans into Tim's face – his voice managing to reach the same 'civil' snarl as Tim's, _

"_Oh? No, God forbid we do something that isn't on Timmy's terms. Are you afraid to show the world your true colors?"_

_And that's when Tim notices it – and almost smacks himself in the face for not realizing it sooner. He takes a step back and hardens his glare as he scoffs,_

"_Jason, you're drunk, aren't you?"_

_And Jason just grins – a cruel, sarcastic, thing as he retorts, "As fuck. But that's what happens when you're left waiting for your date for *two hours*!" And the grin is gone, replaced with a glare once more as he steps forward again – looming over Tim, "Ignoring the embarrassment of being asked to leave, ignoring the fact that the reservations I worked pretty damn hard to get were moot, ignoring the fact that I waited outside for *another* half hour before you finally decided to grace me with your presence-" he pauses, reveling in a moment of grim satisfaction as a very small flinch seizes Tim's form, "I'm sick and tired of having to wait for you. Everyone else, *everyone* else comes first. Comes before me. And fine, whatever, I get that you have your damn code, but shit, Babybird, I wish you'd put *me* first sometimes. Because if you can't do that, maybe 'us' isn't such a good idea."_

_And Tim's glare drops at that. Only for a second, but it's a second enough to let Jason know he went too far. But then, he already knew that. Although, Tim had overstepped all sorts of metaphorical lines more times than he can count – it's about time he had his turn. Tim still refuses to fight in public, though, so he sighs and turns to face the road, raising an arm to flag down a taxi as he deadpans,_

"_I'm not doing this, Jason. Not right now. Not right here. Call me when you're sober – I'll stay at the theatre tonight."_

_Part of Jason wants to stop him. Wants to apologize, wants to drag him off to some other place for dinner, wants to laugh about it and continue the night as planned. But, hell, he's still pissed – and the fact that Tim refuses to acknowledge *why* he's so irritated is absolutely infuriating. And sure, maybe he's overreacting just a *bit* - and maybe that can be blamed on the massive amounts of alcohol he consumed: but that doesn't mean he isn't angry. So he just lets out a harsh, loud laugh as he slumps back onto the bench, arms stretched out across the back. It hurts – his chest fucking hurts when he's like this to Tim, but he can't help it. It's just. . .it's how he deals with things. And so he does nothing but flash a quick grin before glaring at Tim as the younger man shoots a glance his way – a taxi slowing to a stop in front of him. _

_Tim glares back, and Jason knows him well enough to see the hurt in those expressionless blue orbs. Just like Tim can see the apology in Jason's teal. But neither will say anything – not yet. Not when anger clouds those underlying emotions. With a growl, Tim throws the cab door open and drops in, snapping out a harsh, "Happy one year."__before slamming the door shut._

Jason is throwing his arm out before he realizes what he's doing. The stone gargoyle shudders under his punch and a few gray chips fall to the ground. He ignores the throbbing in his hand as he clenches it and glares down at the city streets.

He should have apologized.

He should have grabbed Tim, sent the taxi on its way, and apologized. He should have taken him to a different place – one that wasn't so uptight. One that would suit them better. He should have said he was sorry and begged for forgiveness – which Tim would give him, wholeheartedly, as always. Then Tim would have apologized, too. Explained his reasons for being late. And Jason knows he really did have a good reason – Tim never arrives late for the hell of it. And it's not always Jason who is left waiting. Hell – Tim has made the godforsaken 'mission' that he and Bruce practically worship wait so he could comfort Jason on one of his worse nights. Not even Dick receives that sort of prioritization.

Jason was just angry. Angry and drunk and embarrassed. And so he snapped. But he didn't mean it. Especially his comment about their relationship. Not a good idea? Tim was the best thing to ever happen to him.

He can't even begin to imagine a life without him.

"_Well hey, Prettybird. What's up?" Jason hums into his cell phone, his voice sarcastically sweet as he shoves his free hand into his pocket. He can only think of two reasons why Dick would be calling him tonight: 1) to see how their date was going because he is goddamn nosey like that or 2) because Timmy went crying to him and now he's playing big brother. Either way, Jason *really* doesn't feel like talking to him right now. He had been walking around the city for twenty minutes, ever since Tim rode off, and he *still* hasn't released any steam. But hey, mocking Dick should be good enough._

"_Jason. . ." And that stops him dead in his tracks. Dick's voice is soft, worried, and pained as it seeps through the phone. Something is wrong. Not 'You made Tim cry, you ass' wrong – terribly wrong. Something happened._

_Jason feels his hearth clench – his pulse quicken with worry. He swallows hard and he feels the world around him slow down to an anticipating halt, even before Dick breathes out,_

"_It's Tim. . ."_

_And with a sickening jolt, Jason's world spins back into motion. The city around him is too bright. Too loud. He needs to escape. Now._

_So he runs. Runs as fast as he can towards the manor. Had Tim gone out as Red Robin to let out steam? Had he been hurt? It hadn't been long enough! Shot? Kidnapped?_

_His heart hammers in his ears but it does nothing to drown out Dick's words trailing from the phone still pressed against Jason's ear, "There was an accident. A car accident. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit them from the side. Both drivers are dead – on impact. Tim's in the ICU. He. . .We don't know if he'll make it or not. The doctors said-" Jason pretends he doesn't hear Dick's voice hitch. Not for Dick's pride, but for the sake of his own heart and to keep himself from panicking as he turns around and heads for the hospital instead. He prays to whatever god will listen to him as Dick finally composes himself to finish what he had been saying, "Th-they said to expect the worst."_

Jason stops again – falls to his knees on a ledge three stories above the busy streets. Five hours. They tried to save Tim for five hours. But, in the end, nothing worked. Jason swallows hard as his throat tightens and, not for the first time in the past few days, he is grateful that his mask covers his entire face as he lets a few tears escape. With a soft sniff, he removes his glove to survey the damage he'd done to his hand a few moments ago.

He is used to grief – it's a common theme in their line of work. But this. . .this is different. He is only too familiar with the stages of grief; usually with emphasis on the 'anger' portion. But this time. . .

This isn't denial. It feels like denial, but he *knows* Tim is gone. Knows he is gone and no amount of anger, bargaining, or any of that will bring him back. And he sure as fuck will *not* make him suffer the Lazarus pit – no matter how much Jason wants him to live again. And depression? Hell yes he's depressed. His heart feels like lead every moment of every day and he honestly can't think of a reason to keep living: but he refuses to suggest that he is in the 'depression' stage. Because then the next stage is acceptance. Moving on. And he will never, *never*, move on. How could he? When he practically killed him himself.

They say it's not his fault, but he *knows*. Out of all the things that could have killed Tim – out of all of the dangerous situations he has been in ever since he was thirteen fucking years old. Even before Robin and Red Robin, he followed Batman and Robin around Gotham as a child. A goddamn kid! After all of that – and he dies in a car accident. A FUCKING CAR ACCIDENT. And the only reason he had been at that intersection in the first place is because Jason just *had* to start an argument.

Jason fists his hand again, ready to punch the stone ledge in front of him, but stops as his already bloody knuckles throb in protest. Instead, he sighs and reaches into his pocket – pulling out a small golden ring. He wasn't going to ask Tim that night – but he was planning on doing it soon. But now. . .

He lets out a shuddering sigh as he closes his fingers around the useless wedding band and brings his knuckles to his mask. He closes his eyes and imagines Tim standing there as he whispers the words he has repeated so many times since the funeral – since the hospital:

The words he should have said before Tim ever got into that taxi,

"I'm sorry, Babybird. I'm so, so sorry. I love you and, God, I'm sorry. . ."

* * *

See? Lots of angst. But it will start to get better soon! The next chapter should be up before next month - hopefully. I plan on posting in 'Regret' first.

But thank you for reading! And please review! I love to see how readers take the things I post.

Until again.


End file.
